It began as part of my standard bit.
“Look at those tits!” Walter said. Walter Woodman, age seven going on seventy-five. Green hair. Freckled complexion. Always wears the same yellow-and-red plaid sports jacket with the same pair of light khaki pants and brown loafers. Height: 3’ 6”.
Walter is my ventriloquist dummy. We were in the middle of my act, doing a monthly gig at the bar lounge of a hotel near the beach. I had spotted her using my peripheral vision, which becomes acutely perceptive for those who do my line of work. At least, for those who do it well. She is older than me, but gorgeous: one of those women that puts out a high-beam erotic vibe, like some radiant version of the Spanish fly. I could see the men (and some women) around her fidgeting from sexual agitation. Read more…
“Harlot!”
My Dear submissive subbies and slaves,
It is a perfectly clear, crisp morning, just after sunrise. The sun is strong, but not too hot and a light, but refreshing breeze blows from offshore. i am up early, per Mistress Marquesa’s instructions, preparing Her a light, but hearty breakfast of fresh fruit juice, assorted fresh fruits sliced to Her liking, a fresh baked muffin and fresh coffee. As always, when I work in Mistress’s kitchen, I am naked save for a frilly apron, my leather cock and ball restraint and the obligatory nipple clamps and weights, which dangle freely from my budding tits, pulling them, shaping them and making them grow to Mistress’s delight and, naturally, my delight as well. my ass, which Mistress paid close attention to before She sent me to sleep the night before, sports an eye-catching redness, a reminder of the deliciously sharp spanking Mistress gave me before She ordered me to retire. The redness prickles with a soreness that sends waves of pleasure through me; anytime Mistress administers punishment, pain or attention of any kind to my body – Her exclusive property – the joy is most profound for me. 
